Fifteen Minutes
by the.clairvoyance
Summary: It had taken the jury just fifteen minutes to find that Ian Casey was, in fact, guilty of armed robbery based on the testimony of a single eyewitness.


**Fifteen Minutes **

**Disclaimer:** If I owned *anything* this piece of fiction would be an episode right now :P Pairing: Danny/Lindsay, DL. It is mentioned but not the centre.

**Genre:** Angst/General/Suspense.

**Rating: **14A for language and content.

**Spoilers: **The Shane Casey arc from season 3. Season 6, episode 23. "Vacation Getaway"

**Summary:** It had taken the jury just fifteen minutes to find that Ian Casey was, in fact, guilty of armed robbery based on the testimony of a single eyewitness.

**Dedication: **For all the people whose lives were just too short.

**Author's Note: **Seriously? Another cliffhanger? No offence to the beloved writers, but are you _completely_ dense? This is torture; I swear it is! Making us wait another how many weeks until we get any kind of explanation for what the (cover your eyes!) fuck (open them again) happened. Frankly—and it could just be me—but I am getting just a little bit exhausted with the fact that we have a third ambiguous season finale, consecutively no less!

*Inhales and exhales*

Whatever, I'm just being overly dramatic again. In the meantime, while I recover from my near anxiety attack, I offer to you my attempt at cliffhanger answering fanfiction. Enjoy! :D

* * *

_**Prologue**_

_It only takes fifteen minutes to make a nutritious meal for your family while you could also clean up your car. Make up application can be completed in fifteen minutes as well as a portion of a daily work out. Someone can experience his or her "fifteen minutes of fame" meanwhile—in the same amount of time—someone dies from an alcohol related collision. Conception can take fifteen minutes and then bringing that new life into the world can take only fifteen minutes as well just like ending a life can occur in fifteen minutes and often less._

_It had taken the jury just fifteen minutes to find that Ian Casey was, in fact, guilty of armed robbery based on the testimony of a single eyewitness.

* * *

_

Ian would have been proud.

This is what you tell yourself because if your brother were alive—instead of six feet under—since you are certain that he would appreciate everything that you have done for him. You avenged him; you honoured his name, you believed in him even when everyone else told you otherwise. Since the day he was sentenced and found dead, you've dedicated your life to prove his innocence and what a hero he had been. So what if you had to crack a few eggs along the way? Everything you did was for the greater good because that's what being a brother means; honour, loyalty, and above all else faith.

You always had faith in Ian, which was why he was your hero. Even when he broke promises or had a less than sunny disposition, Ian was the one person in the whole, wide world who not only saw something in you but also wanted you to go after it. Ian had practically raised you and taught you all your life lessons about book and street smarts, chicks and dicks, how to ride your bike and tie your laces. He was the reason that you're the man you are today and honestly, you don't think you'd be as brilliant, daring, and confidant in yourself if you hadn't had your brother as a guide; a role model.

And Ian didn't rob or shoot any—_fucking—_body.

It hardly matters what some son-of-a-bitch CSI thinks nor does the opinion of twelve jurors and a judge. You're his brother and that's all there is to it. You've seen Ian take down guys in fights, play the field with pretty faces at the bars, and become intoxicated enough to know how far gone he gets as well as the fact that he knows how to be the bigger man in situations. Robbery though? Ian has had his moments but he wouldn't steal and shoot someone getting in the way of that. Now you two may have not lived the "good life" but neither of you needed to resort to "armed robbery" and killing someone? That was a joke of a conviction if you've ever heard one. Ian was one tough motherfucker when he wanted to be but he sure as hell wasn't a murder and you're sick and tired of these lies and rumours about him floating around.

These CSI wanted to see a man capable of murder? You were going to deliver.

It wasn't the first shot that was going to kill you, no because you still feel your breath, no matter how faint, escaping your lips.

* * *

The second blow hurts much more but you know it is because that _bitch_ of a CSI saw you moving, attempting to get back up. She shot you first in the leg and when you toppled upon impact that little fuck _Danny Messer_ jumped to save his daughter and although you have done a lot of shit in your time and involving this bastard's life—career and familial alike—you probably wouldn't have killed his kid. There's something about taking the life of a child that even puts you off and you wonder if it's because you know what it's like to be a kid in a helpless situation.

"Linds," you hear that son of a bitch Messer call out from the other side of the room with his daughter collected in his arms. Rolling your head in his direction you notice the worry, shock and absolute _relief _splayed across his face and if it weren't for that face that you are bleeding to death on their apartment floor you likely would have wiped it off his ugly mug. You sneer a bit at the desperate man because it takes too much energy to truly glare; you can feel your power just oozing out of your body like you're some superhero who has been zapped with laser beam.

"Get outta here," the bastard demands but obviously Lindsay Monroe—or was it Messer now?—isn't quite use to taking orders because she is ignoring her husband as she approaches you with a gun in one hand and the other balled into a fist.

You blink and suddenly the dirty blonde woman is leaning over you, wearing an expression of a predator inspecting a potential meal.

"You are going to Hell, Shane Casey." She whispers coldly, standing there in a puddle of your blood. "Just like your brother."

_Bitch,_ you think and then—since you no longer have anything to lose—say aloud.

The barrel of her gun is pressed to your forehead firmly and you are still bleeding from two different, freshly made orifices when she cocks her weapon and makes eye contact with you. Focusing your attention on only her and not the shell-shocked expression of her husband a few feet away and the soft hiccup crying of their toddler daughter in her daddy's arms. Locked in her gaze you feel the fierceness of anger and fear but mostly you saw hate; true, unadulterated, _acidic _hate. Either this was the straw that broke the camel's back or you're just seeing your reflection in her darkened eyes.

"Your fifteen minutes are over, Shane Casey. Say "hello" to your brother for me, you sick son of a bitch."

And then the third shot struck and that was the last thing you clearly remember seeing is your blood painting her face and your body becoming spastic before collapsing on the Messer's apartment floor. She probably climbed off of you and fell apart in a mess of blood, sweat and tears, or maybe she shot you a few more times just to make sure that you wouldn't pull another fake-y like you did on that lighthouse. Perhaps she called one of her police buddies to come and take her statement or maybe she just ran to her husband's comforting arms. All you know for certain as of now is that you are floating in and out of what you can only imagine is a next life, of course that being if you even believed in one.

* * *

You used to think—way back when you were just a little kid—that when people died they went somewhere better and now that it is actually happening to _you_ personally you can't help but wonder what your destination will be. Sure, that gun wielding CSI bitch says that you're going to Hell but really mythical places are an opinion more than anything else. But if you don't believe in Hell does that mean that you can't believe in Heaven either? Whatever, it doesn't matter much either way, since the only thing on your mind is finding your brother. Dreamer.

Light-headed and bleeding still, you want nothing more than to have enough strength to roll on to your stomach just to be an asshole and make an even bigger mess out of their apartment. You're certain that your hearing will go first since their kid won't turn the vocal cords off for one fucking second and you'd think that these two would have enough courteousness to shut their kid up so that you can die in peace but _no_, they want to make you_ suffer_; assholes. Then you hear it—something other than that insufferable little girl's lungs, that is—and it isn't quite as rewarding as you had anticipated.

While fading in and out of wakefulness you can hear her desperate voice; just on the edge of tears and his worried and mildly terrified tone. This is what you wanted all along—wasn't it?—to put Daniel Messer in his place? But perhaps there was a flaw in your brilliant scheme, because, for one thing you certainly hadn't intended on being shot, especially since you were quite enjoying the superpower of invincibility that you had been showing off earlier. But fortunately for you it seems that you'll be put out of your misery sooner rather than later, what with the way that blood is oozing out of you, the apartment surround you is swirling dizzily, and that the walls of your mind are quickly closing in on you.

Suddenly you know how this is all going to end: you are going to die on the nursery floor, they are going to get off Scott-free, they will _never_ tell their kid about this day, and they will continue on with their lives as if you and what you've been fighting for were nothing more than some tragedy and something that they would rather forget all about. Fuck that, you're not going down without a fight. You thrust your arm out without whatever energy you have left to the general vicinity of where Detective Lindsay Messer-Monroe kicked your gun and blindly you somehow manage to find it. You grasp it, hold on for dear life, and pray that you will hit your intended target.

Then you pull the trigger.

Unfortunately the result isn't nearly as climatic as you had hoped when you watch, with almost closed eyes, the bullet ricochet off the wall and nick the floorboards. What a disappointment. This is your last thought as your eyelids weigh too much and your mind is completely fogged; disappointment.

* * *

**Author's Note:** *Stares back up at fiction* Yeah, I know, it was bizarre. I don't know what came over me when I thought this would make for an interesting one-shot but I guess I wanted to see inside Shane Casey's mind for at least a split second and let me tell you, it isn't pretty :/. And besides, who isn't anticipating that Lindsay shoots Shane (SOB) Casey? Like, seriously, even my mum predicted that much xD. Well I hope that this went well and that it wasn't too difficult to relate to since I put it in the perspective of a rather unlikeable character. Oh well, I killed him off so you may all love me again ;D. Nonetheless, I hope that you all enjoyed reading it and that this will help tide you over until the season seven premiere this September :D. Drop a line!


End file.
